


Every Man Has a Price

by doomcake



Series: Across the Universe [3]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Gangsters, Italian Mafia, M/M, Male Slash, Violence, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:52:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/pseuds/doomcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A cold feeling creeps up Gokudera’s spine. Instinct tells him that there is something decidedly off about this entire operation.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>In the midst of what he thinks is a personal crisis, Gokudera wonders where he went wrong.</p><p>[Part of an ongoing, post-TYL divergent AU arc]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Man Has a Price

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes.
> 
> \--
> 
> Another fic that's a few years old now. Still migrating these over! Next part should be posted this week at some point, if I don't get to it today.
> 
> Part 2/? of "Across the Universe" series
> 
> **PLEASE NOTE:** This story is part of a prequel arc to "dive" (see the "first" part in this series--AO3 doesn't let us have a "part 0" haha). Not sure how this might be as a stand-alone fic, so I would recommend reading the previous sections leading up to this story.
> 
> **WARNINGS:** M/M sexual content, mafia-related violence, strong language (my Gokudera tends to be pretty foul-mouthed). May be more rated "Mature" than "Explicit", but I tend to rate high to be on the safe side.

_▷ Just how deep down the rabbit hole do you want to go?_

 

**« every man has a price »**

 

 

Gokudera breathes in heavily, drawing deeply from the cigarette perched between his lips, and shuts out the roar of the pattering rain falling in torrents around him. The gun rests comfortably in his hand, finger loose on the trigger, ready for a split-second pull—or not, should the idiot cowering at his feet come to his senses. The puff of smoke leaves his nostrils, the ends curling as they beat against the kneeling Mafioso’s head.  
  
This is Gokudera’s least favorite thing about being Tsuna’s Right Hand Man—he hates that he’s human, that he makes mistakes and misjudges people and then has to clean up his own goddamned messes. Not that he would trust anyone else with this job, because nobody else would get it the way he does, but it’s still frustrating.  
  
 _Why didn’t I see this coming?_  
  
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you now, Ko,” Gokudera says coldly, pressing the business end of the pistol against the quivering young man’s scalp.  
  
The kid’s hands wave above his head, a gesture of panic and fear. “I’m sorry— _I’m sorry_ ,” he whispers, voice quivering with coming tears. “They were going to kill my brother. I’m sorry.”  
  
“You know the rules—my rules. You willingly took an oath, and then just as willingly broke it.” He cocks the gun, and Ko flinches with a startled yelp.  
  
“I’m sorry! Please— _please_ , try to understand—”  
  
Gokudera clenches his teeth, the end of the cigarette bending and coming close to its breaking point. “You know how much I hate liars, Ko. You tried to steal information and give it to a rival family. There’s nothing else to understand, here, other than that you’re a traitor, and a piss-poor liar.”  
  
“Gokudera-sama, I didn’t—”  
  
“You don’t have a brother,” Gokudera continues. “In fact, you don’t even have a family—why the fuck else do you think I singled you out, hm? Why else I’d bring you into my family, offer you my protection, teach you like you were my own—and _this_ is how you repay me? Stop cowering like a phony, and face me like a man, you son of a bitch. Game’s over.”  
  
Ko stills beneath the barrel of the pistol, his demeanor shifting almost instantly, and it’s then that Gokudera knows he’s on the right track. The traitor’s eyes are shielded by a mop of unruly black hair, slicked down into wet, stringy pieces from the rain, but Gokudera doesn’t find it hard to imagine what he’ll see once the bastard finally looks him in the eye.  
  
“When did you find out?” Ko asks, all signs of fear absolutely _gone_ from his voice.  
  
A shiver runs down Gokudera’s spine, because he suddenly realizes that Ko’s sudden confidence has to stem from somewhere—that Ko isn’t alone in this treachery. With a smirk, Gokudera’s finger presses slightly into the trigger. All it’ll take is one sudden movement, one wrong word, and—  
  
“A while now,” Gokudera replies, taking another drag on his cigarette. “Just had to wait to see what the hell it was you were up to, sneaking around like you had something to hide.”  
  
Ko barks out a breath of laughter. “I had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before you found me,” he said. “You are Vongola’s Right Hand Man for a reason. But in the grand scheme of things, you’re just one man—how much do you even think you can do, on your own?”  
  
“A hell of a lot more than most,” Gokudera says, putting just a hair more pressure on the trigger. “You didn’t get far, clearly. Not nearly as far as your two predecessors managed to get.” His brow wrinkles in a frown. “So tell me, Ko, you wouldn’t happen to know why you three _amici_ all _happened_ to decide your famiglia wasn’t good enough for you anymore, would you?”  
  
This time, Ko’s laughter lasts much longer, and sends a cold stab of concern into Gokudera’s chest. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he says. “You haven’t a clue what you’re in for, Vongola.”  
  
Gokudera frowns. “What the hell is that supposed to—”  
  
Ko suddenly lashes out, and Gokudera’s instincts roar into overdrive. It’s over in a matter of seconds: a gunshot cracks the air violently, echoing off the soaked asphalt they’re standing on, and the sound of a body hitting wet pavement follows it shortly after. Gokudera stands still, smoking barrel still pointed at the body on the ground as he draws in a series of harsh breaths, and after his breathing evens out, he lets the hand holding the glock fall to his side.  
  
He stares at the body at his feet, locks the gun and replaces it in the hidden holster under his armpit, and sighs, drops the cigarette out of his mouth, and crushes it with the toe of his dress shoes.  
  
“You fucking moron,” he growls, though even _he_ isn’t sure if he’s directing the sentiment at the body at his feet, or at himself.  
  
  
  
  
  
 _“Where are you?”_  
  
“Rome,” Gokudera says flatly into the phone. He scowls at the plaza over his Caffè Americano and taps his cigarette furiously against the ashtray at his table. “And it’s fucking hot.”  
  
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and then, _“Why didn’t you tell me you were going?”_  
  
Taking a long drag on the cigarette, Gokudera waits several heartbeats before he blows the smoke into the mouthpiece of the phone. “Because it’s work-related.”  
  
 _“Tsuna told me he gave you leave so you could take care of a ‘personal matter,’”_ the voice on the other end of the phone line says softly.  
  
Gokudera grinds his teeth. “Look, damn it, what the hell does it matter to you why I’m here? I just needed to take care of something. That’s all.”  
  
 _“You don’t have to tell me why you’re there, Hayato. Just… it would’ve been nice to know that you were going, is all.”_  
  
Gokudera sighs, tension bleeding out of his shoulders because he knows his anger is completely unjustified. It’s a matter of trust, and he isn’t being very responsible with Yamamoto’s. Clicking his tongue disapprovingly, Gokudera chides (gently, this time), “Worry-wart.”  
  
 _“That’s only because you always get into trouble, haha.”_  
  
“I do not, moron. Besides, Giacomo’s flying out to meet me tomorrow, if it makes you feel any better.” He crushes the last of the cigarette into the ashtray, and downs the last of his Americano in one large gulp. “I’ll call you tomorrow, when I’m headed back to Tokyo with Giacomo.”  
  
He can almost hear the grin on the other end of the line. _“Okay.”_ There’s another pause before Yamamoto adds, _“Make sure you don’t do—”_  
  
“Anything stupid, yeah, yeah, I know,” Gokudera finishes for him. “I’m not an idiot.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Giacomo has been Gokudera’s retainer for almost three years now, and Gokudera likes him because he’s reliable. Doesn’t ask questions when they’re not needed, shows up when he says he’ll show up, always on call. When Gokudera first recruited the man, he was a businessman who had a lot of mafia ties, and had managed to get himself in trouble with one of the famiglia he’d been dealing with under the table. Gokudera offered protection under the Vongola, in exchange for his services. Giacomo quickly took the deal.  
  
Yamamoto had been a little jealous when Giacomo started accompanying Gokudera on many of his missions, but Gokudera reassured the Rain Guardian (in his own way) that there was nothing between them. It’s all just business, just work. But even as Yamamoto trusts Gokudera, he never warms up to Giacomo. Gokudera doesn’t think about it much.  
  
But when Giacomo never shows up to meet him at the airport—when Giacomo’s mobile goes directly to voicemail when called—it’s the only thing on Gokudera’s mind.  
  
He tries to rationalize the idea that something might have happened to Giacomo—that maybe his plane was delayed, maybe his mobile battery died. Maybe he’s just jumping to conclusions far too easily, because his instinct is trained to assume the worst at all times.  
  
Part of his mind, however, just can’t seem to let go of the niggling idea growing in the back of his mind. The idea that all this rationalizing he’s doing is simply a sign of his own denial; a denial of things that are spiraling out of his control. And if this is the case, he’s done a fantastically shitty job of being the Right Hand Man to one of the most powerful and revered international mafia famiglia. If he can’t handle this problem (a problem he may have created) on his own, then he has no right to be second to the Tenth.  
  
Gokudera finishes off the fresh pack of cigarettes, opened this morning, before he heads back to his gate. There’s nothing he can do about this problem here and now—he has to think, do some investigative work, and figure out when the hell he started doing such a sloppy job as the Right Hand. He’s anxious that something might happen to the Tenth while he’s gone—never mind the fact that most of the other Guardians are still by the Tenth’s side. If anyone, Yamamoto would know that the Tenth’s safety always comes first. But it doesn’t necessarily help assuage the churning, twisting feeling in his sinking gut; he needs to be with the Tenth, to _make sure_ with his own eyes.  
  
He resolves to do some damage control the second he touches down in Tokyo.  
  
  
  
  
  
One of the things that makes Yamamoto an exceptional lover is his ability to read Gokudera like an open book. He doesn’t question Gokudera when the Storm Guardian shoves him down on the couch, straddles his hips, and captures his mouth in a teeth-scraping, tongue-battling kiss. He doesn’t protest when Gokudera begins to pull at his tie, at the buttons on his shirt. Not a single word—moans definitely don’t count.  
  
It isn’t often that Gokudera initiates their more intimate moments, but fuck, he’s had a long, hard week and he _needs_ this. He needs some semblance of control, and Yamamoto always knows exactly when to let Gokudera take the reins.  
  
Gokudera’s teeth leave red marks and welts along Yamamoto’s neck and collarbone; his tongue and teeth making almost desperate movements against the Rain Guardian’s heated skin. In the back of his mind, he knows he’s being a little rough—but _damn it_ , he can’t help himself after this past week. Yamamoto seems to be enjoying the turn of events anyway; there still hasn’t been a single word of protest out of his mouth, and his back arches deliciously every time Gokudera finds his sensitive spots.  
  
When Yamamoto hisses as he hits his head on the carved wood trim of the ornate couch’s armrest, Gokudera sits back long enough to fumble with Yamamoto’s belt. But when Yamamoto pushes his hands away and tries to stand up, Gokudera snarls and moves to grab his shoulders until he realizes that Yamamoto’s leading him to the bed by his tie.  
  
“Couch not comfortable enough for you?” Gokudera asks with a leer.  
  
Yamamoto rubs at the bump on the back of his head sheepishly. “Not really, haha— _nngh_!”  
  
With a smirk, Gokudera runs his teeth along Yamamoto’s bared collarbone again, relishing in the full-body shiver he wrings out of his lover. “I didn’t give you permission to move over here,” he says breathily into Yamamoto’s ear. “Mm, now what shall I do with you.”  
  
Out of the corner of his vision, he sees Yamamoto’s eyes flash with something of a challenge, and it makes Gokudera’s spine tingle with anticipation. His grin turns dangerously feral as he focuses in on Yamamoto’s bobbing Adam’s apple as the Rain Guardian swallows nervously.  
  
Ah, Gokudera sometimes forgets what it’s like to play the one in charge. On a night like tonight, it’s like heaven (and hell).  
  
He moves them both to the bed anyway, letting Yamamoto break away just long enough to shake off his pants—it leaves him clothed only in his half-buttoned shirt and tie, and a pair of soft grey boxer-briefs. Gokudera lets his dress slacks slide to the ground on the way there before he catches Yamamoto by the tie, pulls him in close to his face. He grins wickedly again when Yamamoto tries to bite his ear, but fends him off with a jerk on the Rain Guardian’s tie.  
  
“We’re playing by my rules tonight, remember?” he growls into Yamamoto’s neck, nipping viciously at the scar on his chin. “You don’t get a say.”  
  
“But _mmphf_ —” Gokudera covers Yamamoto’s lips with his own, very effectively silencing any protests.  
  
Yamamoto’s soft grunt into his lips gives him the opening to slide his tongue into Yamamoto’s mouth, pressing forward almost desperately with his lips and teeth. Gokudera’s free hand goes down to press against Yamamoto’s crotch, and he smirks when he feels how hard Yamamoto is. Yamamoto groans into Gokudera’s mouth and rocks his hips into Gokudera’s hand.  
  
“ _Hayato_ ,” Yamamoto groans impatiently, pressing into Gokudera as much as he can.  
  
Something about the way Yamamoto’s husky voice is _pleading_ causes the emotions coiled up in Gokudera’s chest to snap and bleed out. He uses his lips and tongue to tell Yamamoto he’s more than happy to oblige without using a single word other than Yamamoto’s name, whispered harshly into the dimly lit bedroom.  
  
  
  
  
  
Breathing heavily through his nose, Gokudera stares at the ceiling of their shared bedroom. The sweat glistening on his skin cools as it dries with the night air. Feeling comfortably sated, he rolls onto his side and props himself up on his elbow once he has his heart rate under control, eyes meeting with Yamamoto’s. The idiot has a goofy, lazy grin on his face as he looks up at Gokudera.  
  
“I think you should do that more often, haha,” Yamamoto says.  
  
Gokudera opens his mouth to reply, but then frowns as he sees the red marks on Yamamoto’s bared collarbone and chest. There are welts forming on Yamamoto’s biceps as well—those will likely become bruises—and suddenly Gokudera doesn’t feel quite so satisfied as the guilt begins to set in.  
  
“Shit,” he says irritably. “When it hurts, you should at least say _‘ow,’_ you dumbass!”  
  
Yamamoto’s grin fades as he blinks in confusion, then looks down at himself. He frowns and pokes at one of the marks with a slight grimace, and then he laughs again. “I didn’t even notice those.” Grinning almost fiendishly, he asks, “Haha, do you think that make me a masochist?”  
  
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Gokudera says uncomfortably, ignoring Yamamoto’s light-hearted question. “Goddamn it, you don’t have to just take it like that.”  
  
“But what if I liked it— _ow_!”  
  
Gokudera lets go of Yamamoto’s ear with a sigh. “See, that’s how it should work, idiot.”  
  
With a confused frown, Yamamoto rolls onto his side before pulling himself into a sitting position, the sheets pooling around his bare waist. He turns so that he’s facing Gokudera, seeking out Gokudera’s gaze even as Gokudera tries to avoid it.  
  
“Hey,” Yamamoto says, reaching out for Gokudera’s face with an open palm. “Look at me for a second?”  
  
Gokudera’s shoulders stiffen, but he complies begrudgingly. Yamamoto’s expression is warm, open, inviting—and it’s pissing Gokudera off, because this moron sitting in front of him is too fucking nice to admit when he’s in a potentially damaging relationship. Gokudera isn’t healthy for someone with such a bright and charming aura.  
  
“You weren’t too rough, Hayato,” Yamamoto says sternly. “We’ve beaten each other up far more than this before while sparring. And besides that,” he adds quickly, before Gokudera can protest that _sex_ and _sparring_ are two completely different playing fields. “I didn’t mind. Really! It didn’t even cross my mind that you were leaving marks.”  
  
Gokudera looks away again, feeling restless with Yamamoto’s openly honest expression staring at him so easily. “That’s not the point.”  
  
“Eh?” Yamamoto blinks again. “Wasn’t that what you were worried about—?”  
  
With another sigh, Gokudera rolls over onto his other side and pulls the sheets up to his shoulder. “Never mind,” he says dismissively. “It’s not worth talking about anyway.”  
  
Gokudera feels the mattress sink behind him as Yamamoto inches closer, his breath hot on Gokudera’s back and neck as a muscled arm snakes around his waist and pulls him into a muscled back. He stiffens his shoulders and moves to push the big oaf away, but Yamamoto’s other arm sneaks under his side and to his chest before both arms tighten and hold Gokudera in place.  
  
“It’s okay,” Yamamoto says softly into Gokudera’s ear. He can feel the words vibrate in Yamamoto’s chest as he speaks. “You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. You know I’m not one to pry. But don’t feel like you have to keep it all to yourself, because you don’t.”  
  
Gokudera knows he’s being unfair. Goddamn, does he _know_ , but it’s not like he’s about to admit to it. Yamamoto really doesn’t ask much of him, doesn’t pry into his business when he isn’t asked to, and generally is a pretty damn good companion—lover— _b-boyfriend_ —whatever the hell they are together. He _owes_ it to the idiot to at least apologize; it’s not like Yamamoto’s asking him for details. He takes a few moments of just _listening_ (Yamamoto’s breathing, heartbeat, the rustle of sheets as he gets comfortable) as he gathers his thoughts.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going before.”  
  
Yamamoto’s breathing seems to hitch and pause for a split second at the words, pausing as if he’s waiting for something else to come. After another moment, he releases a long breath into Gokudera’s hair, snorting softly.  
  
“I understand,” Yamamoto replies with a (sad) smile in his voice. “I know you don’t want me to worry, so it’s okay.”  
  
Gritting his teeth, Gokudera tries to turn around to glare at the moron, but Yamamoto’s arms are still holding him tightly in place. “Damn it, dumbass! How can you say that it’s just ‘ _okay_ ’?! No, it’s not _okay_ , because I was being a secretive, stubborn jackass and I’ll be damned before I let you think it’s fair!”  
  
 _Oh, fuck._ Gokudera’s teeth click together when he decides he’s saying too much. His heart flutters furiously in his chest as Yamamoto goes completely silent behind him—but he doesn’t tense or flinch or move away. He just… stays where he is, holding Gokudera close, his calloused fingers hovering just over Gokudera’s heart (he wonders if Yamamoto can feel how nervously panicked he is right now). It’s like this for only a few seconds—Gokudera isn’t sure he can breathe—but it feels like a blessed eternity before Yamamoto finally moves again. His stubble-prickly chin scrapes over Gokudera’s shoulder.  
  
“We all have our secrets, Gokudera,” Yamamoto says gently. “Of course I worry when you take off without telling me that you’re going, but it’s only a natural reflex. I can’t hold that against you, because I’m probably going to have to do the same to you sometimes. It’s just part of how we live our lives—doesn’t have anything to do with being ‘fair’ or ‘unfair,’ or even ‘secretive.’ It just _is_. …Right?”  
  
Gokudera frowns, because sometimes he forgets how fucking rational Yamamoto can be when he drops the _haha I’m just a laughing idiot don’t mind me_ act. Hell, even _that_ is a form of secrecy, Gokudera realizes, and it occurs to him that Yamamoto is looking at this whole situation from an entirely different angle than he is.  
  
“Damn it, Takeshi,” Gokudera mutters. “You don’t have to be so damned _rational_ about everything.”  
  
Yamamoto chuckles. “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” he says. He starts to say something and hesitates, but adds in that same rational, serious tone, “But you don’t have to go about your problems alone, if you don’t want to. You know you can always trust me, don’t you?”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Gokudera replies, almost sullenly. “I know.”  
  
Yamamoto smiles into his neck. “Good,” he whispers.  
  
  
  
  
  
Yamamoto’s snoring brings Gokudera out of his light sleep. Rolling over, he glances at the clock—it’s a little past three—and gingerly slips out of the bed, trying not to wake his lover. He snatches his cell phone off the dresser and pulls up the last e-mail he received, just before he'd met back up with Yamamoto last night. It's an urgent apology from Giacomo, who has been on the trail of "something important," hence why he was unreachable. He's requesting Gokudera accompany him in tracking down a potential mole for the Solntsevskaya bratva, a Russian mob group that had neutral ties with Vongola. The news is disconcerting, and Gokudera isn't going to waste time to take care of this problem as well.  
  
Gokudera has about an hour and a half before he has to head to the airport to catch the flight Giacomo booked him for this morning.  
  
A rustle of the sheets makes him jump, but when Gokudera looks over his shoulder, all he sees is Yamamoto sprawled on his back, mouth open and snoring loudly. Gokudera smirks, snorting softly and shaking his head as he heads to the bathroom to take a quick shower.  
  
He feels a little guilty for leaving Yamamoto like this, but the situation in Italy is even worse than he thought. Giacomo contacted him yesterday with information on yet _another_ potential mole, which makes Gokudera worried (how had he missed it when he was over there before?). He doesn’t know why this is all happening now, because it’s really worrisome. _Is someone gunning for the Tenth? What are they after, and why are they all jumping ship now?_  
  
Gokudera will never ever admit it to anyone, but he might be a little scared. Scared that all his carefully laid plans to protect the Vongola aren’t falling to pieces, backfiring and exploding in his hands even as he’s building the foundations. Scared that he’s making things worse. Scared that he won’t be able to succeed in fending off a future like the one they’ve already seen. He lets the hot water from the shower run down over his face and neck, breathing in the steam as he tries to clear his mind.  
  
As far as he knows, he’s the only Guardian whose underlings have turned on Vongola. He doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong, or if he just has bad taste—but whatever is going on, this is a problem he needs to solve within his own ranks, _with_ his own ranks.  
  
Towel-drying his hair, he quickly gets dressed in the most recent model of the battle suit that Giannini engineered. Yamamoto’s still snoring when he goes back into their shared bedroom, but Gokudera makes sure to keep silent as he packs a few small things to take with him to Italy. He’s halfway out the door when he looks back at Yamamoto—and he can’t just leave like this. Yamamoto was right last time; it’s only fair that he at least lets Yamamoto know where he’s going.  
  
Gokudera walks over to his dresser, pulls out a pad of notepaper and a pen, and hastily scrawls a note. Something semi-apologetic, simple, and vague, but it lets Yamamoto know that he’s headed to take care of some business in Italy with Giacomo, and will be back in a few days if all goes well. _So don’t worry so much, idiot,_ and then he ends it with a stylish _G_ (his signature). As another sign of apology, Gokudera uses a bottle of his favorite Italian cologne as a paperweight.  
  
 _“I’ll be back,”_ he whispers, and then turns to the door.  
  
Because he’s going to get to the bottom of this situation. If he doesn’t, he has a bad feeling that the repercussions will reach farther than he can protect. And he’d rather die before he let one of his own stupid mistakes be the cause of the Vongola downfall. Not in this lifetime.  
  
  
  
  
  
Gokudera hisses as a bullet scrapes along his thigh—a near-miss that leaves a messy, stinging gouge through the rip in his dress pants. This is getting completely out of hand now, he knows, but he is determined to keep moving, to _keep fighting_ until he figures out what the hell is going on. Giacomo is still several paces behind him, emptying a clip into the path behind them. For the moment, he has cover, but it isn’t going to last long. So while he’s going through his next several moves out here on the battlefield, his mind works double-time as it tries to logic through his current predicament.  
  
Gritting his teeth, he summons a burst of his dying will into his storm ring before he presses it into his most familiar ring box—the skull cannon that wraps around his wrist, eye sockets flaring to life. He pokes his head around the corner of the concrete warehouse they’re using as momentary shelter against a barrage of bullets, sees an opening, and whips around the corner with the cannon blazing.  
  
A large explosion rips through the back street, breaking the higher windows of the building and sending his enemies flying amidst the roar of flames and human screams. Once the flames die down, Gokudera motions over his shoulder to Giacomo, and they both creep toward the back door of the warehouse, guns drawn and Gokudera’s Storm ring blazing with his dying will.  
  
Gokudera slowly pushes the door open, cannon up in defense as he looks cautiously into the dark warehouse before he takes a few steps inside. Giacomo follows closely behind, handgun up and ready.  
  
It’s dark, and there isn’t much. A few wooden crates, some with labels sloppily spray-painted along the sides. A haphazard pile of broken pallets. One rusty, outdated, mechanical pallet-stacker lying on its side. Cobwebs strung across broken, dirty windows. It looks abandoned, like the place hasn’t been touched in years—possibly decades.  
  
A cold feeling creeps up Gokudera’s spine. Instinct tells him that there is something decidedly off about this entire operation. Maybe the deserter they’re supposed to find is having a secret meeting here, he tells himself, though part of him seriously doubts such a ridiculous meeting place. Any famiglia with enough financial backing wouldn’t hold meetings like this in an abandoned warehouse, no matter how low-profile they want to be.  
  
There’s something wrong. The nerves along Gokudera’s spine tingle painfully with every step he takes further into the warehouse, like he’s running head-first towards the trigger of a deadly booby-trap. Fight-or-flight is in high gear in his bloodstream, and flight is trying desperately to win with no obvious enemies in sight (yet).  
  
Gokudera’s phone vibrates softly in his jacket pocket, making him almost jump. Cursing under his breath and shoving a hand into the pocket to silence the phone, movement catches the corner of his eye and he whips his cannon back in front of him. Giacomo stills behind him, and Gokudera can just see the barrel of Giacomo’s glock pointing forward out of the corner of his vision. He looks over, eyes meeting Giacomo’s, and they give a mutual nod as they both turn back to where the movement came from.  
  
Gokudera moves forward first, treading softly enough that his dress shoes don’t clack against the concrete floor. They follow the source of the movement to a set of stairs that lead up to a second-story supervisor’s office, shrouded in glass windows that overlook the warehouse main floor. The windows are dark with dirt and old, peeling bits of tint film, but Gokudera thinks he sees the outlines of at least two other people up in the office.  
  
 _So maybe we_ are _on the right track_ , he thinks, before he leads the way to the rusting metal stairs.  
  
Giacomo follows closely behind, so silently that Gokudera almost forgets he’s even there. At the top of the stairs, he can hear low voices coming from inside the office. He frowns as he focuses in and listens as well as he can, but the words are spoken in voices too low for him to pick up. At least he has confirmed that there’s _something_ going on here, but he doesn’t recognize either of the two (three?) voices speaking in the room. They’re speaking in… _is that Russian?_ He’s not even sure who he’s chasing now.  
  
Slowly peeking his head around the corner, he sees the closest man to him has his back turned, and the other two in the room aren’t looking in his direction at all. _Three against two; not bad odds,_ Gokudera finds himself calculating. They’re hovered over something on a table—paper-thin, perhaps plans, blueprints, or a map—but they don’t seem to be paying much attention to what’s written. One of the men slams his hand down on the table suddenly, making Gokudera jump. He quickly pulls his head back around the corner, and looks back at Giacomo seriously.  
  
When he turns back around, he sees that one of the papers on the table has fluttered to the ground. Squinting to see what’s on it, he thinks he can make out some of the characters—  
  
 _Wait. That’s—that’s G-script. … Shit. God-fucking-damn it! They stole papers from my office!_  
  
Readying his skull cannon, Gokudera grits his teeth in anger. With a terse nod in Giacomo’s direction, he quickly whirls around the corner, skull cannon up and ready to fire.  
  
“Hands up, fuckers,” he says in Italian (hopefully a language they understand). “Get your goddamn hands up where I can see them.”  
  
Slowly and uncertainly, the three men turn with wide eyes, obeying in silence. With a motion of his outstretched arm, Gokudera signals them to step back from the table.  
  
“The fuck did you guys steal from me?” he murmurs, chancing a quick glance down at the papers below. He freezes when he sees a part of a project he’s been working on for far too long—and he hopes to _god_ none of these fuckers know what they’re looking at. “You bastards,” Gokudera growls, leveling his skull cannon at the chest of the largest-looking guy there. “Who are you working for, huh? Who told you to take these?”  
  
The larger man suddenly grins, and replies in Italian with a thick Russian accent, “You have no idea what you’re up against, do you, Vongola Storm Guardian?”  
  
There’s a soft _click_ , and a cold, hard barrel presses against his back. _Shit. Shit, shit, you fucking idiot how did you not see this coming—_ Gokudera freezes, because the only person that had been standing behind him was—  
  
“I’m sorry, Boss.” The bastard has the fucking _gall_ to even sound a little remorseful as he speaks. “You aren’t a half-bad guy, but… Ah, well. You know how these things are.”  
  
“Giacomo,” Gokudera growls between clenched teeth. “How long, you bastard? How long have you been working with these mass murderers?”  
  
Giacomo sighs, the gun’s barrel shifting slightly against Gokudera’s back as his (ex-)retainer clicks his teeth disapprovingly. _Smug asshole—_ “You’ve never really been my boss, Boss,” he explains, patronizing in tone like he’s dealing with a stupid child, and it raises the hair on the back of Gokudera’s neck in rage. “Don’t get me wrong, because you’re not a bad guy. If things had actually been the way you thought they were, then maybe I would’ve reconsidered. But they’re not. Vongola isn’t the end-all-be-all of the world, Signor Gokudera, and nothing you can do will ever change that.”  
  
It dawns on Gokudera now, that maybe this is something that spiraled far out of his control long before he even knew of the situation. Yamamoto has good instincts; he has always been wary around Giacomo, hasn’t he? Gokudera resists the urge to grimace, because he knows now that he should’ve trusted Yamamoto’s judgment all along. What kind of a fool takes the word of an almost-stranger over his own lover’s? _“You haven’t a clue what you’re in for, Vongola.”_ Ko’s words echo in his mind, and part of him realizes that all these deserters were all likely tied directly to one main person running the entire operation—Giacomo.  
  
“If not Vongola, then who?” he snarls. His mind is already going through a list of international famiglia that would involve Japanese, Russian, and Italian Mafioso (at the very least).  
  
Giacomo snorts, and says, “Vongola isn’t without enemies; _you_ , of all people, should know this.” Gokudera can hear the smile in his voice. “You remember that weapons technology research and manufacturing laboratory you snooped around a few months ago, don’t you? The one that was trying to replicate the box weapons for another mafia famiglia? You see, their patron— _my_ famiglia—wasn’t exactly pleased with your intervention, or your reluctance to close that business deal with them regarding your little… _project_.”  
  
Gokudera remembers them well, because he knows that their technology will lead directly to the future he’s already seen (and barely survived), and he now knows they already have the blueprints for his project—sitting right at his feet. They just don’t know G-Script, which makes the plans useless, and—  
  
And it’s why they haven’t killed him yet. “You goddamn _son of a bitch_ —”  
  
His words are cut off with an explosion that doesn’t ring in his ears until _after_ white-hot agony rips through his back and side, blinding him and stealing his breath. A sharp burst of pain, and then it feels like a hot poker slowly being pulled through him, trailing liquid, molten metal in its wake. His nerves are on fire, and for a second it feels like his heart is going to explode out of his chest. It hurts so badly that he can’t think, can’t move, can’t even scream as he drops to the ground bonelessly.  
  
“But really, it’s nothing personal, Gokudera,” he hears Giacomo saying above him. He’s drifting, and the words sound like they’re coming from far away. “It’s just business.”  
  
The world around him goes grey at the edges, and he can only concentrate on making his aching lungs work. Voices buzz over his head; his mind is straining to listen to what his ears are telling it, even while the pain overrides all of his circuits. There are hands on him, some just holding him steady, others causing sharp flares of agony in the haze of pain. Angry words are exchanged, but he doesn’t know what they’re saying.  
  
Sharp prick of a needle in his arm—he feels that, at least—a cold, liquid sensation slides under his skin, and his mind pleasantly separates from his agonized body. It isn’t an unpleasant way to go. His last thought before he’s completely gone goes to Yamamoto, because sometimes, “die” beats out “do.”  
  
 _Sorry._

 

 

**_to be continued..._ **

**Author's Note:**

>  **RECOMMENDED LISTENING:**  
>  ♪ [all the right moves](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-7fRqtQWwOk) { onerepublic }


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